


The Curious Incident of the Cat in the Nighttime

by hyacinth_sky747



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_sky747/pseuds/hyacinth_sky747
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kitten stirs things up at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Incident of the Cat in the Nighttime

The crime scene was the most horrific John had seen. It wasn’t especially gory, though there was a lot of blood. John was bothered by how young and pretty the victim was and how very ugly her last hours of life had been. John guessed she was in her early twenties. She was a tiny thing with blood in her blond hair and an expression of pain still etched on her face. She was nude and John wanted to grab the sheets off the bed to cover her. 

As they had been walking in Anderson had been walking out of the house with a screaming toddler in his arms. The child had blood on him. John didn’t like Anderson but you’d have to be a monster not to feel for a man whose face was showing such pity and pain. 

Sherlock walked slowly, his eyes darting as he noticed everything. He crouched beside the dead woman for a minute or two. The room was very quiet. So quiet that John could hear Sherlock’s breath shaking in and out of his lungs. Sherlock stood abruptly and walked out of the room.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called. 

“Just—a moment.”

John exchanged a worried look with Lestrade and went after him. Sherlock was in the hall, looking out the window. He was motionless but not relaxed. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were clenched into fists by his sides. John stood beside him without saying anything. 

“That film you watched. That was a good one.”

John had watched lots of films. Sherlock never seemed to pay attention to them but John wouldn’t have been very surprised if he could name them all and list their casts and crews. 

“Which one?”

“Three weeks ago. Black and white.”

Oh. _Manhattan_. Of course Sherlock would like a love song to a city. John’s eyes burned and he blinked rapidly. He’d never seen his friend so rattled. Sherlock was casting about for something to distract his mind, to center him. 

“I like how you look in a tie and a blazer.”

“Thank you,” John said. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock took a deep breath in and let it out. He smiled. 

“Sorry.”

“There’s no need--“

“Stay out here. I don’t want to think about you looking at that. I won’t be long.”

Sherlock pushed by him and went back into the bedroom. John stared out the window for moment. His throat ached and he dashed the tears off his face angrily. He wandered into the kitchen. There was a coloring book on the table with crayons spread out around it. Half the picture had been scribbled on and the other parts were shaded in carefully. They had sat here not too long ago, the mother and child, coloring. Happy. A peaceful moment. Perhaps their last peaceful moment. 

There was a cup of tea with the tea bag still in it next to the kettle. A plate with a picture of Peter Rabbit was in the sink. A bowl of cat food sat on the floor. John went to look for the cat.

He was under the sofa. John nearly missed him. He looked like a dust bunny. Just a kitten. So small, just a puff of fur. John had the feeling if he blew on it the puff would break apart, like dandelion fluff. John was ambivalent about cats. He’d never felt the need to own one. He put this one under his coat and left the house. He’d wait for Sherlock outside. 

~*~

Sherlock did notice the kitten. He eyed John’s bulging coat in the cab. He watched John give it a saucer of milk in the kitchen. He never said anything. John didn’t bring it up. He wasn’t going to keep it. The woman’s relatives would want it maybe, or he’d find it another good home. 

The relatives weren’t interested so John made up a flier to post at the clinic. Except he didn’t post it. 

The kitten liked Sherlock. He would try to sleep in Sherlock’s lap. It was the only time Sherlock ever recognized its existence. He’d move the kitten away. 

After a week John gave the animal to Mrs. Hudson. She called it Boots. Sherlock broke into her flat and took him back. 

“She doesn’t understand him. His name is Watson,” Sherlock said when John glared at him. He went into his room and closed the door, taking the cat with him. From that time on Boots Watson had the run of the house and slept under the covers of Sherlock’s bed at night. 

~*~

Mycroft was pleased. He sent a basket of cat treats and feathers. John shook his head. It was nice that the government had time to spy on kittens. Sherlock came home with his right eye swollen shut and his left ear bleeding. John put him in a chair and hurried to the kitchen for ice. 

“Where’s Watson?”

“I think Oliver has a case on.” John had named the cat too. It only seemed fair as he was the one to have found him. Boots Oliver Watson had been keeping a ray of sunshine under surveillance all morning. 

“Don’t call him that.”

“He got a package in the mail this morning. It was addressed to Sir Watson. Apparently he’s been knighted.” Sherlock hissed as John cleaned his ear. “That needs a few stitches. Do you want me to—“

Sherlock nodded impatiently. As soon as John was done Sherlock was up off the chair and tearing into the package. Sir Boots Oliver Watson skittered over to play. John settled in his arm chair and tried to read. He gave up after a while and just watched his flatmates rolling around on the floor. Sherlock had a feather in his hair and his clothes were covered in cat fur. 

“You really ought to keep ice on that bruise.”

Sherlock looked up at him. He looked pale and tired but he was smiling. “Ice is boring.”

John’s hand was resting on Sherlock’s cheek before he knew he was going to reach out and put it there. He wanted to do something soft and sweet like run his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, or ruffle his hair, or press his lips ever so gently to Sherlock’s forehead. 

He didn’t. Sherlock wouldn’t want it. He peered closely at the swelling instead. “Just lie down for a little while.” Sherlock gave John a long and calculating look with his good eye but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into John’s palm for the briefest of seconds, then nodded. 

~*~

Sir Boots Oliver Watson, knight of the realm, had a short life. He’d only been residing at Baker Street three months when he sickened. Sherlock took him to the vet one morning and came back without him. 

“Is he--?”

Sherlock shook his head. “There wasn’t anything they could do for him. Can you get rid of his things?”

Sherlock went to his bedroom and closed the door. John sighed and began to gather the cat bowls, bedding and toys. He shoved everything into a box and put it in the back of the hall closet. Sherlock might want it later. 

He trudged downstairs to break the news to Mrs. Hudson. She cried on John’s shoulder. John made her a cup of tea and left her in front of the television with her herbal soothers. 

Sherlock didn’t come out of his room until tea time. John suspected that he wouldn’t have come out at all if his laptop hadn’t been in the kitchen. His face was puffy. John poured them both tea and a shot of whiskey. 

“To good friends,” John said, raising his own glass. Sherlock clinked it and swallowed the whiskey in one go. They took their tea to the living room and sat in silence. It slowly grew dark but they didn’t turn on the lights. It had gone nine o’clock by the time Sherlock stood. 

“Goodnight, John.”

He closed the bedroom door behind him. John didn’t move. He listened for a long time but he couldn’t hear Sherlock crying. That ought to have comforted him but it didn’t. After an hour or so he walked to the door and knocked softly. 

“I’m okay, John.”

John opened the door. Sherlock was sitting by the window. Light from the street shone in. He was holding a feather. 

“I feel ill. Will you sleep here?”

John nodded. “Yeah—I—yes. Of course.”

John slept on the bed in his clothes. Sherlock sat in the chair by the window. He didn’t sleep. 

~*~

Mycroft had a kitten delivered the next day. Sherlock was out. Thank God. He wouldn’t want it. John wondered if he were to perish if Mycroft would have an injured army doctor delivered to the house the next day. Probably. John didn’t think Sherlock would want him either. Some things could not be replaced. 

John brought the kitten to an old folk’s home.

That night Sherlock worked furiously, tapping away at his phone and laptop until after midnight. John went to change and brush his teeth. When he came back Sherlock was leaning on his bedroom door. Waiting for him. 

John got under the covers this time and Sherlock curled up behind him. He pressed his face into the hollow between John’s shoulder’s blades. 

“Warm,” he said. He wrapped his arms and legs around John and the next minute he was snoring quietly into John’s back. John couldn’t help but smile. He loved Sherlock. He loved every mad, contrary, tender, awkward, exasperating and vulnerable thing about him. If he had been facing the other way he’d have run his fingers over Sherlock’s cheekbone, cupped his face, kissed his brow. He wasn’t so he put his hand over Sherlock’s and slept. 

~*~

When he woke the sun was behind high white cloud and Sherlock was holding his hand and staring at him. 

“You’re so warm.”

Sherlock kissed him. John smiled against his lips and kissed him back. It was a shy kiss, just their lips meeting. It would have seemed chaste if it had not lasted so long. 

“Okay?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” John said. 

“Again?”

John ran his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. “More.”

They missed breakfast. They were trying on kisses in the bedroom. Soft ones and rough ones, wet ones and ones with teeth, breathless and slow, with eyes closed and open, with John’s head hanging off the side of the bed. 

They ate apples and cheese and bread for lunch. They ate it with the covers of Sherlock’s bed pulled right up over their heads and with their legs entwined and their fingers pushing the food into each other’s mouths and licking them clean. 

When they were done Sherlock took off John’s shirt and used it to brush the crumbs off the sheets. 

“That was a nice cat,” Sherlock said.

“He was,” John agreed. “A very nice cat.”

“I kept thinking about what would happen if I didn’t have you. I didn’t like it.”

“You have me,” John said. 

Sherlock pulled the elastic of John’s pajama bottoms away from his belly and looked inside. John trembled and tried to spread his legs but they were all tangled together with Sherlock’s. 

“Can I fuck you? Later? In a little while? I want to look at you first. Kiss you some more.”

John nodded and tried not to pant. He failed. So he panted and smiled and pushed at Sherlock to entangle their legs. 

“You can fuck me, then look at me. You can kiss me all you want and fuck me again.” John got his legs free, kicked off his pajamas, and scooted his arse further down the bed so he could lie flat and pull Sherlock on top of him. 

Sherlock put his tongue in John’s ear. He whispered into it, just some nonsense, just so it would tickle and John would writhe prettily on the sheets. He took his time, trailing his fingers over John’s skin, pulling kisses from John’s mouth and pressing them back in. He tried to kiss or lick or suck every inch of John that he could reach. He tried to be methodical about it so he wouldn’t miss anything but he kept getting distracted by the sounds John made when Sherlock pinched his nipples. And for some reason John really liked it when Sherlock swirled his tongue over the inside his wrist and the crease behind his elbow. He cried out and shook and Sherlock lost track of time. He would have happily spent days kneeling over John, drawing those quakes from his body. 

He lost track of where he’d been and had to start all over and soon after that John was practically sobbing as he begged Sherlock to touch his cock, hurry, he needed. 

Sherlock had wanted to indulge in a nice long finger fuck. He wanted to lie between John’s thighs and watch his face and his cock a look at John’s hole stretched around his fingers. He wanted to do it for hours. That plan would have to wait because Sherlock needed now too. He needed to be closer and deeper and faster. He needed more John. 

John let out a shaking moan when Sherlock pushed inside of him. He put a hand on Sherlock’s arse and pressed him in deeper. Sherlock went still for a moment. He was seeing stars. 

“I don’t think this is going to last very long.”

“Just give it to me.” John wrapped a fist around his own cock and started thrusting and Sherlock couldn’t think anything but _tight, wet, hot, sweet fuck, John._

It was over too quickly for Sherlock’s liking. He didn’t know what he was going to do now. There would never be a moment when he wouldn’t want his cock between John’s legs. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and opened them in time to see John fall apart. He looked so broken and beautiful. Sherlock put kisses on John’s closed eyes and in his hair before he gently pulled away and fell to the mattress. 

They were quiet for a time. Just breathing and staring at the ceiling and letting the sweat dry. Sherlock began to tell John about the finger fucking idea and John moaned and kissed him and said it was a brilliant, fantastic idea and called Sherlock a genius. He made them shower first and have a bite to eat and a cup of tea because he didn’t want to be hungry and ruin Sherlock’s best idea ever. 

They did that in John’s bed because Sherlock’s was wet and crumby and had a slice of apple mashed into the sheets. 

In the evening John stripped both beds and made them up again with fresh sheets. He’d showered again and he was rosy and had damp hair. He was sleepy and shagged out. Sherlock took his hand and led him to bed and tucked him under the covers. He kept the lamplight on and watched John’s eyes drift closed. 

From that time on John Watson slept under the covers of Sherlock’s bed at night.


End file.
